It's been proven once and for all that President Obama was born here in the United States (and yes, Hawaii is a state and has been for a very long time).
And bin Laden was captured and killed on President Obama's watch.
Yah, the republicans are pissed alright. And Trump! He must be furious! He had to put up with the public ridicule at the White House Correspondent's Dinner. The gall of that must have been bitter for him.
As for bin Laden, I have a hard time in my mind justifying any death that wasn't natural. We murdered bin Laden, plan and simple, but it's something that had to be done, I suppose. And the fact that it happened on Obama's watch - it's a bitter pill to swallow for the republicans.
Yes, I know Obama isn't the best president, and lauding him because he's half black doesn't make up for all his mistakes. But there isn't a training session or a guide book on how to be president. I think anyone who takes that office is going to have problems and we should give Obama credit - at least for this.
So Bush, eat your heart out. Obama did what you couldn't do in 8 years of office.
HAH!
Monday, May 02, 2011
Saturday, August 21, 2010
What's Out There?
I love science fiction. There is just something about the idea of other places, other beings, other IDEAS, that fascinate me. So often I wish I could be on some space craft out there exploring that the yearning becomes almost painful. It’s an idealized culture, scifi. Ethics are better, technology is awesome, mundane problems are already solved and people live better.
I like that.
Oh I know, some scifi stories deal with the darker side of life. There are always scifi books that deal with corruption, tyranny and power hungry people who just like to make others suffer. Those can be good reads too, just to see how the author imagines those horrors and how to deal with them. But my idea of a good read is the idealized world that has banished hunger, eliminated current illnesses and produce highly educated people who are doing what they want in life.
Because once those problems are dealt with, the author(s) can start imagining what people would be like without the pressures of day to day concerns.
And that’s what I like. The exploration of what we could become.
And since we’ll never really know for sure what we will become until we get there, one idea is as good as another. Why not explore options?
Scifi became an obsession for me back when I was in college the first time around. I liked it before, but something else was triggered back then. I blame it on a humanities instructor I had. He was small and stout, and had that look about him that said reading and writing were his idea of heaven.
You know, a nerd.
During one of his classes, we had been assigned a particular boring book to read. So dull, that most of us in the class couldn’t even get past the first chapter. I can’t even remember the name of the book, that’s how bad it was. Disturbing because what if I run into it again and waste my time reading it?
Our instructor gave us a stern talking to about how reading isn’t just for pleasure. Reading is for enriching the mind. We should be grabbing onto books as if they were a lifeline, not just because we like to read, but because we want to learn about how other people think, and be exposed to other ideas that we may or may not agree with.
Reading is an active experience, and we should be trying with all our force to break out of the bars of our mental prison and get out of ourselves.
That was his point.
Others in the class may have taken that to mean you have to immerse yourself in the classics, or even find authors you wouldn’t normally read. But for me, it made me look at scifi in a different light.
What about living longer than the 80 to 100 years we have now?
What about a culture where machines rule the world and humans are mere servants to those machines?
What about a human society so far in the future that the planet Earth is just a myth lost in the antiquity of time?
How would we deal with creatures that are so alien that being in the same room as they would cause a human to die, either painfully slow or instantly?
How do we deal with these things?
They’re all conceivable. Aren’t they?
We’re on the verge of exploring our galaxy now. Why shouldn’t we consider these factors and find options on how to deal with it?
So I read Heinlein and Herbert and Robinson with a thirst and hope that one day …
One day …
Maybe.
I like that.
Oh I know, some scifi stories deal with the darker side of life. There are always scifi books that deal with corruption, tyranny and power hungry people who just like to make others suffer. Those can be good reads too, just to see how the author imagines those horrors and how to deal with them. But my idea of a good read is the idealized world that has banished hunger, eliminated current illnesses and produce highly educated people who are doing what they want in life.
Because once those problems are dealt with, the author(s) can start imagining what people would be like without the pressures of day to day concerns.
And that’s what I like. The exploration of what we could become.
And since we’ll never really know for sure what we will become until we get there, one idea is as good as another. Why not explore options?
Scifi became an obsession for me back when I was in college the first time around. I liked it before, but something else was triggered back then. I blame it on a humanities instructor I had. He was small and stout, and had that look about him that said reading and writing were his idea of heaven.
You know, a nerd.
During one of his classes, we had been assigned a particular boring book to read. So dull, that most of us in the class couldn’t even get past the first chapter. I can’t even remember the name of the book, that’s how bad it was. Disturbing because what if I run into it again and waste my time reading it?
Our instructor gave us a stern talking to about how reading isn’t just for pleasure. Reading is for enriching the mind. We should be grabbing onto books as if they were a lifeline, not just because we like to read, but because we want to learn about how other people think, and be exposed to other ideas that we may or may not agree with.
Reading is an active experience, and we should be trying with all our force to break out of the bars of our mental prison and get out of ourselves.
That was his point.
Others in the class may have taken that to mean you have to immerse yourself in the classics, or even find authors you wouldn’t normally read. But for me, it made me look at scifi in a different light.
What about living longer than the 80 to 100 years we have now?
What about a culture where machines rule the world and humans are mere servants to those machines?
What about a human society so far in the future that the planet Earth is just a myth lost in the antiquity of time?
How would we deal with creatures that are so alien that being in the same room as they would cause a human to die, either painfully slow or instantly?
How do we deal with these things?
They’re all conceivable. Aren’t they?
We’re on the verge of exploring our galaxy now. Why shouldn’t we consider these factors and find options on how to deal with it?
So I read Heinlein and Herbert and Robinson with a thirst and hope that one day …
One day …
Maybe.
Monday, August 02, 2010
Books
Books are dangerous things.
My father taught me the value of reading very early on. He had to. I was raised in a school system that insisted children with any kind of learning disability were synonymous with idiocy. If he had taken the word of the school counselors and psychologists, I never would have learned to read and probably would be treated as a substandard individual even now. Fortunately, my father had different ideas.
He was convinced that if he could get me deep enough into a story, I would continue reading it on my own.
He was right.
I no longer remember what he started me on in those early days, but I do remember the Trixie Belden phase. They were the sub-standard versions of the Nancy Drew books. A rather fantastic (and not necessarily in a good way) series, of mysteries that a group of teenagers managed to run into and solve for the benefit of friends, family, community and probably the world. I remember reading those for hours on end while lounging on the big armchair in the living room.
It was while reading those books that I experienced, for the first time, the sensation of being so wrapped up in the story, that it takes a split second (that can seem like entire minutes) to figure out what the outside world was about. I think this is why I remember those books so completely.
From there I got into better things. In high school, where I would be so bored I’d beg to be allowed to stay home and left to my own devices for a few precious hours of the day, my father would hand me books that I could hide behind my textbooks and read while the teacher would lecture about whatever mundane topics he was covering. The one that springs to mind right now is A Modest Proposal by Jonathan Swift.
It’s a story about population control through cannibalism. Perhaps not the best thing to give a young teenager to read while going to school, but it happened to be in the car at the moment (don’t ask me why). The one teacher I did show it to had no idea who Jonathan Swift was, let alone what The Modest Proposal was about. Something that bothered my father, a college professor, more than surprised me. To me, all teachers were stupid. Even my father.
I was 15 going on 16; give me a break.
The next year I dropped out of school and went straight into college, but that’s a story for another time.
I have since discovered other reading gems that I have treasured and enjoyed, but now to the meat of this essay.
One book leads to another, which leads to another, and the next thing you know, you have a whole list of books that you probably will never have time to read, let alone enjoy and reread.
I have a working list of titles that I’ve been collecting off and on since high school. It runs, at the moment, to about 4500 titles. It includes everything from children's books to great classics to those titles that might be considered “alternative,” although how a book can be “alternative” I’m not really sure.
Reading is my obsession. If I don’t have anything to read, I go into a panic. At the moment, it’s not a problem though.
I just added Anais Nin to the list. The problem is, I want to read her NOW rather than after I’ve read the 4500 on the list.
And no, there’s nothing anywhere that says I have to read the list in order, but I do have a desire to read other titles at the same time. Jack Kerouac, Henry Miller and Gore Vidal are on the list, too. Not to mention Robert Heinlein, Joyce, and Nietzche.
So why am I now reading Laurell K. Hamilton’s faerie series? Which is nothing more than fluff that’s not even made from natural materials?
Because books are dangerous!!!!
While they can help wile away the time, or even give you some kind of knowledge on subjects you never heard of before, they can also lead you astray from topics that can enrich your mind.
In other words, some books are good, some are bad, and how you define those parameters is entirely up to you. For me, Henry Miller would be a better book to read, but right now, faeries are the subjects that lead me astray.
And badly written stories about faeries too.
But the erotic scenes are good.
Which is another reason Anais Nin made it to the list.
Those who have read both, will understand.
My father taught me the value of reading very early on. He had to. I was raised in a school system that insisted children with any kind of learning disability were synonymous with idiocy. If he had taken the word of the school counselors and psychologists, I never would have learned to read and probably would be treated as a substandard individual even now. Fortunately, my father had different ideas.
He was convinced that if he could get me deep enough into a story, I would continue reading it on my own.
He was right.
I no longer remember what he started me on in those early days, but I do remember the Trixie Belden phase. They were the sub-standard versions of the Nancy Drew books. A rather fantastic (and not necessarily in a good way) series, of mysteries that a group of teenagers managed to run into and solve for the benefit of friends, family, community and probably the world. I remember reading those for hours on end while lounging on the big armchair in the living room.
It was while reading those books that I experienced, for the first time, the sensation of being so wrapped up in the story, that it takes a split second (that can seem like entire minutes) to figure out what the outside world was about. I think this is why I remember those books so completely.
From there I got into better things. In high school, where I would be so bored I’d beg to be allowed to stay home and left to my own devices for a few precious hours of the day, my father would hand me books that I could hide behind my textbooks and read while the teacher would lecture about whatever mundane topics he was covering. The one that springs to mind right now is A Modest Proposal by Jonathan Swift.
It’s a story about population control through cannibalism. Perhaps not the best thing to give a young teenager to read while going to school, but it happened to be in the car at the moment (don’t ask me why). The one teacher I did show it to had no idea who Jonathan Swift was, let alone what The Modest Proposal was about. Something that bothered my father, a college professor, more than surprised me. To me, all teachers were stupid. Even my father.
I was 15 going on 16; give me a break.
The next year I dropped out of school and went straight into college, but that’s a story for another time.
I have since discovered other reading gems that I have treasured and enjoyed, but now to the meat of this essay.
One book leads to another, which leads to another, and the next thing you know, you have a whole list of books that you probably will never have time to read, let alone enjoy and reread.
I have a working list of titles that I’ve been collecting off and on since high school. It runs, at the moment, to about 4500 titles. It includes everything from children's books to great classics to those titles that might be considered “alternative,” although how a book can be “alternative” I’m not really sure.
Reading is my obsession. If I don’t have anything to read, I go into a panic. At the moment, it’s not a problem though.
I just added Anais Nin to the list. The problem is, I want to read her NOW rather than after I’ve read the 4500 on the list.
And no, there’s nothing anywhere that says I have to read the list in order, but I do have a desire to read other titles at the same time. Jack Kerouac, Henry Miller and Gore Vidal are on the list, too. Not to mention Robert Heinlein, Joyce, and Nietzche.
So why am I now reading Laurell K. Hamilton’s faerie series? Which is nothing more than fluff that’s not even made from natural materials?
Because books are dangerous!!!!
While they can help wile away the time, or even give you some kind of knowledge on subjects you never heard of before, they can also lead you astray from topics that can enrich your mind.
In other words, some books are good, some are bad, and how you define those parameters is entirely up to you. For me, Henry Miller would be a better book to read, but right now, faeries are the subjects that lead me astray.
And badly written stories about faeries too.
But the erotic scenes are good.
Which is another reason Anais Nin made it to the list.
Those who have read both, will understand.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Pyschic Spots
My own favorite meditation/visualization exercise was first introduced to me when I was a mere teenager of 15 or so. The assignment, for lack of a better word, was to create your own inner space, again for lack of a better word. It is a place where you could be completely you no matter what was going on around you. You could do actual mediation work there, or you could just head there to daydream. I do both.
It’s up on the mountains, for me. It’s nestled between two peaks clear up higher than people should be able to be (it’s my meditation, after all). But it’s not really in a valley either, because it’s still up in the mountains. Anyways, the two peaks kind of make it private. You only get there because you know it’s there.
While it’s usually day time, the sky is always dark so I can see the stars. I love seeing the stars while out in the middle of nowhere. It’s like you can reach up and grab them. I LOVE that. So naturally, in my meditation, I created a sky that was like that all the time, but this time with the right colors – a deep, deep navy blue. I love my sky.
I know some people pick grand houses with lots of rooms they can do their work in, or meadows with every kind of flower you can imagine. I knew one person who created the perfect bed for her inner space. It doesn’t matter what it is, where it is, or even what it looks like. The important thing is that you created it, it has your stamp on it and you can be totally comfortable there.
I’ve been going to my wonderful spot for years. I have it all set up just for me – my work, my play, my place to commune with myself and my god/goddess/all that is. I can be there in the space of three breaths and I can imagine it so completely that I’ve often wondered if it is a real place. Real, as in, I can get in a car and take my family there. I know it’s real in my head and my own personal universe.
I’ve done some great work there. I’ve met spirit guides, and discovered ideas for my own work with colors and crystals, and learned about my personal totems – the ones I chose and the ones that chose me. I even have found a newspaper that gets delivered there that I can read. From it, I get things and feelings that others would call psychic insight. I try not to read it too often. I like surprises. Besides, it’s the best way I can practice my free will. I don’t want to get too dependent on any kind of psychic power for soothsaying purposes.
It sounds “new age,” whatever that means, and maybe that would make some uncomfortable with it, but I’ve always felt that your own psychic spot is a very important place to develop. Everyone should have one regardless of what they call it. It’s a little vacation spot that can help you get away from “the real world” and balance yourself, find your own ground.
In order to get your goddess head going, one must have a psychic spot of their very own.
It’s up on the mountains, for me. It’s nestled between two peaks clear up higher than people should be able to be (it’s my meditation, after all). But it’s not really in a valley either, because it’s still up in the mountains. Anyways, the two peaks kind of make it private. You only get there because you know it’s there.
While it’s usually day time, the sky is always dark so I can see the stars. I love seeing the stars while out in the middle of nowhere. It’s like you can reach up and grab them. I LOVE that. So naturally, in my meditation, I created a sky that was like that all the time, but this time with the right colors – a deep, deep navy blue. I love my sky.
I know some people pick grand houses with lots of rooms they can do their work in, or meadows with every kind of flower you can imagine. I knew one person who created the perfect bed for her inner space. It doesn’t matter what it is, where it is, or even what it looks like. The important thing is that you created it, it has your stamp on it and you can be totally comfortable there.
I’ve been going to my wonderful spot for years. I have it all set up just for me – my work, my play, my place to commune with myself and my god/goddess/all that is. I can be there in the space of three breaths and I can imagine it so completely that I’ve often wondered if it is a real place. Real, as in, I can get in a car and take my family there. I know it’s real in my head and my own personal universe.
I’ve done some great work there. I’ve met spirit guides, and discovered ideas for my own work with colors and crystals, and learned about my personal totems – the ones I chose and the ones that chose me. I even have found a newspaper that gets delivered there that I can read. From it, I get things and feelings that others would call psychic insight. I try not to read it too often. I like surprises. Besides, it’s the best way I can practice my free will. I don’t want to get too dependent on any kind of psychic power for soothsaying purposes.
It sounds “new age,” whatever that means, and maybe that would make some uncomfortable with it, but I’ve always felt that your own psychic spot is a very important place to develop. Everyone should have one regardless of what they call it. It’s a little vacation spot that can help you get away from “the real world” and balance yourself, find your own ground.
In order to get your goddess head going, one must have a psychic spot of their very own.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Autumn is for soups.
Actually, I like soup any time of year, but especially in the autumn. It's nice to come home to a crock pot full of hot soup.
Today I'm making potato soup. It's a yummy, comfort dish full of potatoes, cream, onions and all the good things in the kitchen. Served with a warm loaf of French smothered in garlic butter and this chick is in Heaven!
My dad makes onion soup. OMG it's so good when he does. He uses two kinds of wine in his recipe. Just the preparation fills the house with yummy smells. You have to cook the onions (all ten of 'em) slowly over a skillet. When I say slow, I mean, it takes about 45 minutes to an hour for my dad to finish prepping the onions. Then he adds the wines and broth and yummy herbs and spices. French bread is served with this, too, along with cheese. We always use a good gruyere cheese with onion soup.
My favorite, if I have to pick a favorite, is beef stew and fry bread. OK so maybe stew isn't a soup, but it works on crisp autumn days, too. Get a hearty stew going with beef and lots of root veggies and a broth that coats the back of the spoon and Mari will eat without nary a complaint from her lips. Dip a piece of fry bread into the broth and you have food of the gods.
MMM-mmmm-mmmm!
Oh damn. I forgot about tomato soup! Especially roasted tomato soup. OOOOH that's good stuff. Roast the tomatoes with garlic, olive oil and balsamic vinegar in a low oven for a few hours and you have the base for a soup that will give Campbell's a run for their money.
Tomato soup goes way back in my family. With most kids, they get chicken soup when they're sick. We got tomato soup. I remember mother bringing me bowls of tomato soup with crackers and hot dogs. To me, it's still the best way to deal with flu.
Go forth and have soup everyone!!!!!
Today I'm making potato soup. It's a yummy, comfort dish full of potatoes, cream, onions and all the good things in the kitchen. Served with a warm loaf of French smothered in garlic butter and this chick is in Heaven!
My dad makes onion soup. OMG it's so good when he does. He uses two kinds of wine in his recipe. Just the preparation fills the house with yummy smells. You have to cook the onions (all ten of 'em) slowly over a skillet. When I say slow, I mean, it takes about 45 minutes to an hour for my dad to finish prepping the onions. Then he adds the wines and broth and yummy herbs and spices. French bread is served with this, too, along with cheese. We always use a good gruyere cheese with onion soup.
My favorite, if I have to pick a favorite, is beef stew and fry bread. OK so maybe stew isn't a soup, but it works on crisp autumn days, too. Get a hearty stew going with beef and lots of root veggies and a broth that coats the back of the spoon and Mari will eat without nary a complaint from her lips. Dip a piece of fry bread into the broth and you have food of the gods.
MMM-mmmm-mmmm!
Oh damn. I forgot about tomato soup! Especially roasted tomato soup. OOOOH that's good stuff. Roast the tomatoes with garlic, olive oil and balsamic vinegar in a low oven for a few hours and you have the base for a soup that will give Campbell's a run for their money.
Tomato soup goes way back in my family. With most kids, they get chicken soup when they're sick. We got tomato soup. I remember mother bringing me bowls of tomato soup with crackers and hot dogs. To me, it's still the best way to deal with flu.
Go forth and have soup everyone!!!!!
Sunday, January 25, 2009
By just raising one hand, he lifted a nation.
I guess I can finally be proud.
I have lived 40 years in this country with a sort of ambivalence toward patriotism. At first it was because Native Americans have gotten so shafted in history, and it hasn’t looked like that was going to change any time soon. Then I became aware of how other minorities are treated in this nation – African-Americans, Mexican-Americans, women, children, etc., etc., etc.
Then Bush came into power, and not because of any vote of mine.
Twice!
And in 8 short years he brought this nation from a functioning country with a decent standing in the world stage and a thriving economy to a nation that is falling apart. Its infrastructure is dying, foods are becoming tainted with diseases because of faulty checks in place, people are being chased out of homes and the ones who have homes are wondering when their turn will be up and our economy is going to hell in a hand basket.
But now we have Obama. His word is gold, his intentions are honorable and he has started his week with good solid decisions about domestic and international policy that is going to help restore our standing.
And he’s black.
Pride is forming.
For the first time in all of my 40 years, I am starting to be proud of being an American.
I have lived 40 years in this country with a sort of ambivalence toward patriotism. At first it was because Native Americans have gotten so shafted in history, and it hasn’t looked like that was going to change any time soon. Then I became aware of how other minorities are treated in this nation – African-Americans, Mexican-Americans, women, children, etc., etc., etc.
Then Bush came into power, and not because of any vote of mine.
Twice!
And in 8 short years he brought this nation from a functioning country with a decent standing in the world stage and a thriving economy to a nation that is falling apart. Its infrastructure is dying, foods are becoming tainted with diseases because of faulty checks in place, people are being chased out of homes and the ones who have homes are wondering when their turn will be up and our economy is going to hell in a hand basket.
But now we have Obama. His word is gold, his intentions are honorable and he has started his week with good solid decisions about domestic and international policy that is going to help restore our standing.
And he’s black.
Pride is forming.
For the first time in all of my 40 years, I am starting to be proud of being an American.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
We Won!
Republicans might resent it for years to come, but we finally rounded a sharp corner in the history of the United States.
We have a black president.
Finally!
And us democrats?
Hell has finally died and a new day dawns.
We have something to wake up for now.
January 20, 2009 can't come soon enough.
We won!
We fucking won!!
We have a black president.
Finally!
And us democrats?
Hell has finally died and a new day dawns.
We have something to wake up for now.
January 20, 2009 can't come soon enough.
We won!
We fucking won!!
Sunday, October 19, 2008
And here's why:
So how did I chose Obama as my candidate for president? I'm a little ashamed to tell you the story, but only just a little.
It was a cold night, the night of the caucus, and the place was absolutely packed. And I went in early! I couldn't find anything that resembled close parking and wound up parking about a million miles away.
Now, I'm not a young woman, and I have my share of arthritis. That day, my back was hurting, and my knees were acting up, so walking a million miles in the cold wasn't exactly a good idea, but I figured I'd be able to sit down once I got inside.
Only once I got inside, it was so crowded that Standing Room Only had been retired a few hours back and Breathing Room had just taken up residence. And wouldn'tcha know, my district's table was about 40 feet away from the steps that lead up to the stairs so I couldn't even sit on those. Sitting on the floor was out of the question, unless I wanted to be trampled.
So I tried to tough it out. About an hour after things were supposed to get started, we lost Breathing Room and were just Packed Like Sardines in the school's gymnasium.
Now remember, until this year, caucuses were never really taken all that seriously during an election year. In a society where more often than not you hear people saying they don't vote because "what difference does it make?" we caucusers were lucky to see 27 people show up for the entire county. Obama and Clinton changed that a bit. My district alone had 100% turnout and there were more than 27 people at our dingy lil table.
I finally gave up and challenged a few people for a seat on the steps.
To make a long story short, and to get to the point (finally), my district finally found a little out of the way corner in a dark hallway to do our little debates and decide on a little candidate. By the time we got there, I was so tired, and my body was so aching, that I just sorta oooozed onto the floor and stayed put.
When I arrived that night, I had been thinking Clinton was going to be my candidate, but the captain decided that Clinton-ers should be on the left side of the hall, while Obama-ites should be on the right.
Guess which side of the hall way Mari was sitting on.
So there ya have it folks. So much for careful consideration of all potential candidates to decide who'd be the best. I just happened to be on the Obama side of the room.
*Cymbal crash!*
It was a cold night, the night of the caucus, and the place was absolutely packed. And I went in early! I couldn't find anything that resembled close parking and wound up parking about a million miles away.
Now, I'm not a young woman, and I have my share of arthritis. That day, my back was hurting, and my knees were acting up, so walking a million miles in the cold wasn't exactly a good idea, but I figured I'd be able to sit down once I got inside.
Only once I got inside, it was so crowded that Standing Room Only had been retired a few hours back and Breathing Room had just taken up residence. And wouldn'tcha know, my district's table was about 40 feet away from the steps that lead up to the stairs so I couldn't even sit on those. Sitting on the floor was out of the question, unless I wanted to be trampled.
So I tried to tough it out. About an hour after things were supposed to get started, we lost Breathing Room and were just Packed Like Sardines in the school's gymnasium.
Now remember, until this year, caucuses were never really taken all that seriously during an election year. In a society where more often than not you hear people saying they don't vote because "what difference does it make?" we caucusers were lucky to see 27 people show up for the entire county. Obama and Clinton changed that a bit. My district alone had 100% turnout and there were more than 27 people at our dingy lil table.
I finally gave up and challenged a few people for a seat on the steps.
To make a long story short, and to get to the point (finally), my district finally found a little out of the way corner in a dark hallway to do our little debates and decide on a little candidate. By the time we got there, I was so tired, and my body was so aching, that I just sorta oooozed onto the floor and stayed put.
When I arrived that night, I had been thinking Clinton was going to be my candidate, but the captain decided that Clinton-ers should be on the left side of the hall, while Obama-ites should be on the right.
Guess which side of the hall way Mari was sitting on.
So there ya have it folks. So much for careful consideration of all potential candidates to decide who'd be the best. I just happened to be on the Obama side of the room.
*Cymbal crash!*
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Elections
I've been struggling through the up-coming presidential election for a while now, I guess as long as everyone has been. I struggle with all of these kinds of elections. I take my right to vote more seriously than other people do, or so it seems. I've met people who refuse to vote.
Which I really don't get. These are the same people who flaunt magnets on their car that say "Support Our Troops." They brag about their own military service, their son's, their daughter's, even their parents or grandchildren's. They never hesitate to salute a solder and commend his service when they're out at the grocery store, but they won't exercise this basic component of that democracy the soldier defends. To me, that is insulting to the soldier and transmits a double standard to the world. To me, this is not how you show your patriotism.
The turnout for this election is being pretty awesome, so maybe we're starting to get it again. People are suddenly turning out in record numbers to make sure their voice is heard. I don't know if it's because the current administration has messed up in so many ways that people are just fed up, or if the idea of a black president has sparked everyone's enthusiasm for the democratic process. It might just be a combination of both. Either way it's nice to see. That is the most basic way of showing your patriotism, in my opinion.
I just hope we don't have another repeat of 2004.
When I cast my vote this year, I'm voting for Obama. I like the clarity of his thought. I like the way he chose not to depend on taxpayer money to fund his campaign. I like how he thought about the uses for negative campaign tactics and used them only for specific purposes and reasons as opposed to just bashing an opponent for the sake of drama. I like how he has been willing and able to honor his opponent even as he is running against him. I like how he expresses himself without being condescending or patronizing.
I appreciate Obama's assumption that I am, not only an American, but proud of it.
I support our troops, but not necessarily the policies and government that put them where they are. I would love a woman to be second in command of our country, but one who is qualified, and not so willing to base her experience solely on her own geography. I don't want our president to be elected because he succeeded in using scare tactics. I want a president who won't waffle on decisions because of an admitted lack of knowledge.
I'm still open minded. McCain still has a chance with me, but if he thinks using scare tactics, being condescending, patronizing and flaunting the tits and ass of his running mate is going to convince me to switch sides, then he must be as out of touch with his potential constituency as Obama claims.
I am patriotic. I vote.
Which I really don't get. These are the same people who flaunt magnets on their car that say "Support Our Troops." They brag about their own military service, their son's, their daughter's, even their parents or grandchildren's. They never hesitate to salute a solder and commend his service when they're out at the grocery store, but they won't exercise this basic component of that democracy the soldier defends. To me, that is insulting to the soldier and transmits a double standard to the world. To me, this is not how you show your patriotism.
The turnout for this election is being pretty awesome, so maybe we're starting to get it again. People are suddenly turning out in record numbers to make sure their voice is heard. I don't know if it's because the current administration has messed up in so many ways that people are just fed up, or if the idea of a black president has sparked everyone's enthusiasm for the democratic process. It might just be a combination of both. Either way it's nice to see. That is the most basic way of showing your patriotism, in my opinion.
I just hope we don't have another repeat of 2004.
When I cast my vote this year, I'm voting for Obama. I like the clarity of his thought. I like the way he chose not to depend on taxpayer money to fund his campaign. I like how he thought about the uses for negative campaign tactics and used them only for specific purposes and reasons as opposed to just bashing an opponent for the sake of drama. I like how he has been willing and able to honor his opponent even as he is running against him. I like how he expresses himself without being condescending or patronizing.
I appreciate Obama's assumption that I am, not only an American, but proud of it.
I support our troops, but not necessarily the policies and government that put them where they are. I would love a woman to be second in command of our country, but one who is qualified, and not so willing to base her experience solely on her own geography. I don't want our president to be elected because he succeeded in using scare tactics. I want a president who won't waffle on decisions because of an admitted lack of knowledge.
I'm still open minded. McCain still has a chance with me, but if he thinks using scare tactics, being condescending, patronizing and flaunting the tits and ass of his running mate is going to convince me to switch sides, then he must be as out of touch with his potential constituency as Obama claims.
I am patriotic. I vote.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Child Killed For Failing to say 'Please'
There are days when it's just too heavy for me to handle.
A few weeks ago, the body of a small child was found washed up against Galveston Bay. Police gave her a wide age range, between two and 5 years old. We all know how vastly different a two year old can look from a five year old, so this had to be the first evidence of something gone horribly wrong in such a young life.
Police named her Baby Grace, another clue as to how old this child really was. And the first clue that the police saw that this was a deliberate death - not an accident.
The police artist gave Baby Grace a bright smile with individual teeth, and open eyes with irises that take up the most of the eye. The open mouthed smile was another clue, as were the irises. Children have to grow into their bodies sometimes, and Baby Grace was no different.
While the idea of finding a child floating in Galveston Bay is horrifying, one would like to think it was the act of some insane psychopath who went on some random rampage. Maybe he kidnapped her from the safety of her bed some dark night while her parents had dinner within earshot. (Unfortunately, she wasn't Madeline McCann.) Or she was lifted off some playground somewhere while the mother happened to look away just long enough to pull a cell phone out of her purse. (Apparently, no children had been reported missing in such a manner during the time frame in question.)
We all should have known better. There was no Amber Alert issued on Baby Grace.
Baby Grace's legal name is Riley Ann. She was two years old, just barely out of diapers.
Her stepfather had such a fragile ego; such a slight hold on his own personal sense of manhood, that not only was he offended by the fact that this child forgot to say "please," but that she wouldn't refer to him as "sir."
The absence of such "politeness" and "respect" bothered him so much, he decided to call in sick at work so that he could "teach the girl a lesson." He lost control of all psychological senses when he started beating this small child with a belt. Baby Riley Ann was in such a state of hysterical fear, she couldn't say whatever words she had in her vocabulary, let alone think of the right ones to use to stop the hitting. The beating ended by the stepfather grabbing Riley Ann by the hair and throwing her across the room, slamming her against a hard tile floor.
Shortly thereafter, Riley Ann stopped crying.
Forever.
Riley Ann Sawyers died in absolute, bone liquifying, blood curdling terror.
And the one person in her life who might have had the power to stop it approved of the action being taken against her daughter. Mommy Dearest.
Riley Ann was killed. The abuse, for her, at least, is over. She's free to play in peace.
But how many other children is this kind of thing happening to on a nightly basis? Because mark my words, Riley Ann's case is not unique.
Rest in peace, Riley Ann. And go with the Grace of G-d.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Thanksgiving
And there went Thanksgiving.
I don’t know what happened, but I am noticing that every year that goes by, the clock ticks faster. I remember, as a child, Summer Vacation would yawn in great stretches of time. Three months off school? That was like an eternity! Now I just finish blinking away an eyelash trapped in my eye and 8 months has gone to the winds. At the rate it’s going in 10 minutes, I’ll be 97!
I'm 39, not 97. And not 40 either, thankyouverymch!
I might as well be 97. I feel like it more often than not. My back hurts. My knees hurt. My head hurts. Some mornings I wake up and it’s everything I can do to pull myself out of bed to get to work. I creak and groan as I work through my morning routine. Don’t even ask me about navigating stairs! I really should be in some kind of physical therapy, but having just started a new job, I don’t have the insurance needed to pay for that yet.
Yet.
I have a job; I'm thankful for that.
It’s coming. They keep telling me, the insurance is coming. For the first time since I started suffering chronic pain, I’m actually looking forward to physical therapy. Sure it’s a royal pain (both literally and figuratively) while you’re doing it, but in the long run it’s gotta help right? Yah, maybe.
At least my problems can be solved and are not terminal. I'm grateful for that.
Which brings me to Thanksgiving (via which route, I’m not sure). I spent the majority of it at home. I made roast beef. Why did I make roast beef and not turkey? Because these days, it’s just my dad and me, so why go through a zillion years of turkey leftovers when we both prefer roast beef anyways? It was good. I baked it slowly in the oven and it came out so tender it was just falling apart. I’m looking forward to roast beef sandwiches for dinner tonight.
It's nice to be able to afford roast beef again.
I also took my father running around to various gigs and engagements. Being the daughter of a musician still recovering from major neck surgery can have its drawbacks. One of the big ones: I’m now a full time chauffer. And I hate to drive. Sitting at the wheel too long makes my neck and back hurt and those hurt enough as it is, but it’s for my dad, so whatcha gonna do?
I am sooooo thankful I have a dad. He is still with me and I hope he is for a long time to come. He is, right now, the only family I have.
So, there's always something to feel thankful for.
And that's what Thanksgiving is all about, isn't it?
I don’t know what happened, but I am noticing that every year that goes by, the clock ticks faster. I remember, as a child, Summer Vacation would yawn in great stretches of time. Three months off school? That was like an eternity! Now I just finish blinking away an eyelash trapped in my eye and 8 months has gone to the winds. At the rate it’s going in 10 minutes, I’ll be 97!
I'm 39, not 97. And not 40 either, thankyouverymch!
I might as well be 97. I feel like it more often than not. My back hurts. My knees hurt. My head hurts. Some mornings I wake up and it’s everything I can do to pull myself out of bed to get to work. I creak and groan as I work through my morning routine. Don’t even ask me about navigating stairs! I really should be in some kind of physical therapy, but having just started a new job, I don’t have the insurance needed to pay for that yet.
Yet.
I have a job; I'm thankful for that.
It’s coming. They keep telling me, the insurance is coming. For the first time since I started suffering chronic pain, I’m actually looking forward to physical therapy. Sure it’s a royal pain (both literally and figuratively) while you’re doing it, but in the long run it’s gotta help right? Yah, maybe.
At least my problems can be solved and are not terminal. I'm grateful for that.
Which brings me to Thanksgiving (via which route, I’m not sure). I spent the majority of it at home. I made roast beef. Why did I make roast beef and not turkey? Because these days, it’s just my dad and me, so why go through a zillion years of turkey leftovers when we both prefer roast beef anyways? It was good. I baked it slowly in the oven and it came out so tender it was just falling apart. I’m looking forward to roast beef sandwiches for dinner tonight.
It's nice to be able to afford roast beef again.
I also took my father running around to various gigs and engagements. Being the daughter of a musician still recovering from major neck surgery can have its drawbacks. One of the big ones: I’m now a full time chauffer. And I hate to drive. Sitting at the wheel too long makes my neck and back hurt and those hurt enough as it is, but it’s for my dad, so whatcha gonna do?
I am sooooo thankful I have a dad. He is still with me and I hope he is for a long time to come. He is, right now, the only family I have.
So, there's always something to feel thankful for.
And that's what Thanksgiving is all about, isn't it?
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Monday, September 03, 2007
Avs avs avs!!!
Once upon a time, back in the dark ages of my youth (I am feeling particularly ancient today), I read a Sci Fi book that touched on cyberspace and the avatars therein. Don't ask me to remember the name of the book as the title and the main plot have escaped me. This book lingers in my memory only because of the observation the author made about avatars.
In this fictitious world, the author claimed that avatars, representations of ourselves on the internet (avs), came in many different sizes, shapes and ideals. You could generally tell what kind of person you were talking to by the av they wore. Avs ran the gamut, but you could glean some useful information from them.
The working classes, for instance, tended to buy the mass produced avs that were sold at some Walmart equivalent. A three-pack of avs with the same basic features. You could choose hair color, eye color and body type according to the manufacturer's choices, but they all tended to look pretty much alike. Barbie and Ken avs, you could say.
Slightly more expensive, but still available at this Walmart equivalent, might be the avs that have come into being at Second Sight and other 3D chats online now. Perfectly proportioned men with ripped abs, nice heads of hair and all the stylish clothes. The female counterparts are slim with nice proportions of their own at chest level and the taut roundness of legs and buttocks a good many of us women wish for and don't have. These avs weren't quite as cheap as the Ken and Barbie avs, but they were still readily available.
Then there were the specialty avs. They were usually tweaked versions of the second category of avs. People played with these avs and "shaped" them into something a little more. . . outrageous. They were no less revealing, however. You can imagine the sort of person who would be willing to wear an av of a 6 foot tall penis, for instance, complete with a PA. Or even a woman with such a large bosom her head is just a little pimple positioned at the top of her cleavage. Trolls, perhaps, or people who have nothing better to do but wish for more sex.
Ironically, the avs that were the most revealing of status and personal taste were the ones that looked the most like "real people." Men in regular clothes who may or may not be part of the management of their jobs. Women who wear jeans and tshirts to grocery stores and showed evidence of an established life with a few children to care for. Hair would be styled, but not glamorous. Skin tones would be more realistic than Ken's or Barbie's. Body types were not mythologically proportioned.
It took more commitment to designing your av if you made it realistic. One had to think a little more in order to make skin tones realistic, or add the slight crows feet and laugh lines one would expect of realism in humanity. Thus, in this world, the realistic avs were the most expensive. You weren't doing badly if you could afford to look normal.
I tend to show off the products of my age a little more (by age, I mean place in time and not chronological age). Most of my avs use the kinds you might see at Second Sight, or more likely, the ones you find on MySpace pages. They're called "dolls," or "baby dolls." They're colorful little pixel creations that stand maybe half an inch high. If you get a large doll, it's maybe an inch high. The baby doll on this blog is MUCH bigger than most of the dolls I've seen. The larger ones tend to have a little bit of a sensual allure to them. I like the smaller ones. They're more mischief and playful.
Like me.
I also have a couple of avs that are "real people." Those tend to have a contemplative and thoughtful mood to them. There might be a little bit of sensuality underlining these avs, but it's never the main focus. These avs are for thought and expression; not for snagging trolls.
One thing is for sure: I will never be the type who chooses to be seen as a walking set of boobs.
In this fictitious world, the author claimed that avatars, representations of ourselves on the internet (avs), came in many different sizes, shapes and ideals. You could generally tell what kind of person you were talking to by the av they wore. Avs ran the gamut, but you could glean some useful information from them.
The working classes, for instance, tended to buy the mass produced avs that were sold at some Walmart equivalent. A three-pack of avs with the same basic features. You could choose hair color, eye color and body type according to the manufacturer's choices, but they all tended to look pretty much alike. Barbie and Ken avs, you could say.
Slightly more expensive, but still available at this Walmart equivalent, might be the avs that have come into being at Second Sight and other 3D chats online now. Perfectly proportioned men with ripped abs, nice heads of hair and all the stylish clothes. The female counterparts are slim with nice proportions of their own at chest level and the taut roundness of legs and buttocks a good many of us women wish for and don't have. These avs weren't quite as cheap as the Ken and Barbie avs, but they were still readily available.
Then there were the specialty avs. They were usually tweaked versions of the second category of avs. People played with these avs and "shaped" them into something a little more. . . outrageous. They were no less revealing, however. You can imagine the sort of person who would be willing to wear an av of a 6 foot tall penis, for instance, complete with a PA. Or even a woman with such a large bosom her head is just a little pimple positioned at the top of her cleavage. Trolls, perhaps, or people who have nothing better to do but wish for more sex.
Ironically, the avs that were the most revealing of status and personal taste were the ones that looked the most like "real people." Men in regular clothes who may or may not be part of the management of their jobs. Women who wear jeans and tshirts to grocery stores and showed evidence of an established life with a few children to care for. Hair would be styled, but not glamorous. Skin tones would be more realistic than Ken's or Barbie's. Body types were not mythologically proportioned.
It took more commitment to designing your av if you made it realistic. One had to think a little more in order to make skin tones realistic, or add the slight crows feet and laugh lines one would expect of realism in humanity. Thus, in this world, the realistic avs were the most expensive. You weren't doing badly if you could afford to look normal.
I tend to show off the products of my age a little more (by age, I mean place in time and not chronological age). Most of my avs use the kinds you might see at Second Sight, or more likely, the ones you find on MySpace pages. They're called "dolls," or "baby dolls." They're colorful little pixel creations that stand maybe half an inch high. If you get a large doll, it's maybe an inch high. The baby doll on this blog is MUCH bigger than most of the dolls I've seen. The larger ones tend to have a little bit of a sensual allure to them. I like the smaller ones. They're more mischief and playful.
Like me.
I also have a couple of avs that are "real people." Those tend to have a contemplative and thoughtful mood to them. There might be a little bit of sensuality underlining these avs, but it's never the main focus. These avs are for thought and expression; not for snagging trolls.
One thing is for sure: I will never be the type who chooses to be seen as a walking set of boobs.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Harry's leavin'?
Naw.
Harry's just gonna become human.
And isn't that the moral of everything? We all have to deal with our humanity at some point in our lives.
Why should Harry be any different?
Besides, self sacrifice is much more interesting than mere death.
Harry's just gonna become human.
And isn't that the moral of everything? We all have to deal with our humanity at some point in our lives.
Why should Harry be any different?
Besides, self sacrifice is much more interesting than mere death.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Questions
I found this questionnaire at one of the websites I frequent. I thought it would be fun to put it up here. If you'd like, "copy" it, answer the questions, and post it on your own blog. Or post it here. It's just for fun. Don't take it too seriously
Please describe yourself in just three words.
Funky, engaging, cute.
Why did you choose to start a blog?
Because I like to write. Keeping a blog is a good way to hone your skill while providing you with the chance to think about things that come through your life. I tend to treat this blog more as a journal, though, rather than a "real" blog.
Are there any recurring themes you touch on in your blog posts?
Memorials and children. I like doing yearly memorials for people I admire; like firemen, or the victims of 911. I also have a great fondness for children. I enjoy getting the quick glimpses of how the world looks in their eyes. Besides, I'm a kid at heart.
How personal do you get in your blog? Are there things you won't discuss?
I get fairly personal. I tend to believe that feelings, unless you're a real social deviant, are pretty normal and it's OK to share them. I won't get so personal everyone knows where I live. I won't publish my phone number.
There are children who read my blog, so I try to keep things mostly clean and easy for them to read. I don't believe in censorship though.
Do you have any favorite bloggers or groups you like to read?
I do. I have quite a few blogs I read, but I'm still working on getting permission to link them here, so you'll just have to wait to see whose they are.
Any final wisdom, thoughts, advice?
Keep an open mind when it comes to your own blog. Just start writing. Maybe a theme will come up, maybe it won't. If you take it too seriously it becomes a chore and we have enough chores in life to deal with. Blogging shouldn't be one of them.
Anything you'd like to let your readers know about you?
I'm open minded, easy to get along with and friendly. Unless you come charging at me with narrow mindedness and stubbornness, I'm not going to bite when you respond to my blog.
Feel free to reach out and play here.
Please describe yourself in just three words.
Funky, engaging, cute.
Why did you choose to start a blog?
Because I like to write. Keeping a blog is a good way to hone your skill while providing you with the chance to think about things that come through your life. I tend to treat this blog more as a journal, though, rather than a "real" blog.
Are there any recurring themes you touch on in your blog posts?
Memorials and children. I like doing yearly memorials for people I admire; like firemen, or the victims of 911. I also have a great fondness for children. I enjoy getting the quick glimpses of how the world looks in their eyes. Besides, I'm a kid at heart.
How personal do you get in your blog? Are there things you won't discuss?
I get fairly personal. I tend to believe that feelings, unless you're a real social deviant, are pretty normal and it's OK to share them. I won't get so personal everyone knows where I live. I won't publish my phone number.
There are children who read my blog, so I try to keep things mostly clean and easy for them to read. I don't believe in censorship though.
Do you have any favorite bloggers or groups you like to read?
I do. I have quite a few blogs I read, but I'm still working on getting permission to link them here, so you'll just have to wait to see whose they are.
Any final wisdom, thoughts, advice?
Keep an open mind when it comes to your own blog. Just start writing. Maybe a theme will come up, maybe it won't. If you take it too seriously it becomes a chore and we have enough chores in life to deal with. Blogging shouldn't be one of them.
Anything you'd like to let your readers know about you?
I'm open minded, easy to get along with and friendly. Unless you come charging at me with narrow mindedness and stubbornness, I'm not going to bite when you respond to my blog.
Feel free to reach out and play here.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
The Merman in the Pool
"There's a merman in the pool."
Hannah tried not to jump to conclusions. It wasn't usually all that wise to respond too quickly to one of Monica's puzzling statements.
"I'm thinking tomato and cheese in a pita pocket. What do you think?" Hannah said casually as she peered into the fridge.
"No. We ran out of balsamic vinegar," Monica replied. "What should we do about the merman?"
"Oh. I thought you were going to the store last night." Hannah refused to show any surprise at her friend's odd statements.
"Hannah, listen to me! We have a merman in the pool and we have to do something about it. All that chlorine can't be good for him."
Hannah looked over the fridge door and looked at Monica. Maybe the stress of a rocky marriage to a man she wasn't sure she loved had finally gotten to her. But why dream up a merman? Why not another man? Or knowing Monica's proclivities, another woman?
Monica, for her part, was looking out toward the pool. She had a worried look on her face, but it was underscored by a line of wonder. How many times do you have a merman visiting your pool? And such a handsome one, no less?
Monica's impatience finally got to her, and she grabbed Hannah's hand and pull-dragged her out the back sliding doors.
"See!" Monica pointed.
Hannah's jaw dropped as she looked toward the pool.
The merman had just burst through the surface of the water, his hair was dark bronze with lighter gold and red highlights streaked through. His muscular shoulders were well defined without being over done, and they flowed out to well shaped, almost chiseled arms. Inviting. You could sink into those arms.
The merman didn't come out of the water all the way, just enough to give the girls a glimpse at a perfectly formed fin that started just below his waist. Its color mimicked flowing ocean waves with shades of green and blue accentuating sensuous peaks and valleys in all the right places. The merman was perfect.
And he knew it, too. As Hannah was realizing Monica was telling the truth, the merman flashed both girls a look that proved beyond any doubt that while the merman didn't have a tail, per se, he'd certainly had some before. Hannah and Monica both inhaled deeply and adjusted their positions to accommodate the additional feelings forming deep in their bodies. Then the merman dove back into the water with the graceful ease of experience.
Hannah was gobsmacked.
"There IS a merman in the pool!" she breathed just as Monica's husband came out to see what was going on. Daniel did a double take at Hannah, then bit his tongue. It wasn't usually all that wise to respond too quickly to one of Hannah's puzzling statements.
;)
Hannah tried not to jump to conclusions. It wasn't usually all that wise to respond too quickly to one of Monica's puzzling statements.
"I'm thinking tomato and cheese in a pita pocket. What do you think?" Hannah said casually as she peered into the fridge.
"No. We ran out of balsamic vinegar," Monica replied. "What should we do about the merman?"
"Oh. I thought you were going to the store last night." Hannah refused to show any surprise at her friend's odd statements.
"Hannah, listen to me! We have a merman in the pool and we have to do something about it. All that chlorine can't be good for him."
Hannah looked over the fridge door and looked at Monica. Maybe the stress of a rocky marriage to a man she wasn't sure she loved had finally gotten to her. But why dream up a merman? Why not another man? Or knowing Monica's proclivities, another woman?
Monica, for her part, was looking out toward the pool. She had a worried look on her face, but it was underscored by a line of wonder. How many times do you have a merman visiting your pool? And such a handsome one, no less?
Monica's impatience finally got to her, and she grabbed Hannah's hand and pull-dragged her out the back sliding doors.
"See!" Monica pointed.
Hannah's jaw dropped as she looked toward the pool.
The merman had just burst through the surface of the water, his hair was dark bronze with lighter gold and red highlights streaked through. His muscular shoulders were well defined without being over done, and they flowed out to well shaped, almost chiseled arms. Inviting. You could sink into those arms.
The merman didn't come out of the water all the way, just enough to give the girls a glimpse at a perfectly formed fin that started just below his waist. Its color mimicked flowing ocean waves with shades of green and blue accentuating sensuous peaks and valleys in all the right places. The merman was perfect.
And he knew it, too. As Hannah was realizing Monica was telling the truth, the merman flashed both girls a look that proved beyond any doubt that while the merman didn't have a tail, per se, he'd certainly had some before. Hannah and Monica both inhaled deeply and adjusted their positions to accommodate the additional feelings forming deep in their bodies. Then the merman dove back into the water with the graceful ease of experience.
Hannah was gobsmacked.
"There IS a merman in the pool!" she breathed just as Monica's husband came out to see what was going on. Daniel did a double take at Hannah, then bit his tongue. It wasn't usually all that wise to respond too quickly to one of Hannah's puzzling statements.
;)
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Come, Let's Make A Date
There is just something about the Tango. Have you ever watched it? I was watching a travel channel program featuring Buenos Aires, Argentina. The place were the Tango was born. Buenos Aires looks fascinating and has an amazing history to it, but the real reason I'd take anyone up on an Argentinean vacation would be because of the Tango. There just isn't a sexier dance.
The sexiness of it isn't hard to understand when you look at Tango's history. It's said to have started in the lower class quarters; brothels to be exact. It might have been an excellent advertising tool for "the girls." Something developed to ensure a "score."
Imagine it: he sees that girl over there at the bar. She's got jet black hair being held together in a tight knot at the back of her head with a scarlet colored scarf. He notices the flash of her dark eyes. She's a healthy girl, with a nice voluptuous figure. But the night is young and there are so many women here. Maybe he will take his time, have another drink and consider his options.
Then she slinks over to him, letting her feet hesitate in each step just enough for her walk to be sultry. She's got "that look" in her eyes. Her dress flares and moves tantalizingly, hinting at a young lithe body underneath. Her shoulders have a feline quality about them. Her arms are lazy in her gait. Her attitude is alluring.
Before he knows what is happening, she's taken up residence in his arms and they're locked into rhythm with each other. Her eyes sneak a glimpse at his mouth, then dart back to his eyes. He looks down at her neck, her collar bone, her breasts, then he comes back up to her eyes for some air. Her leg wraps around his, ankle caressing his calf. His hand on the small of her back feels muscle form and move underneath the skin.
See the dip? He did that for a reason. It's a not-so-subtle hint at how and what they will do when there aren't so many people around. A quick slide and a twirl brings her back up and their eyes lock. Mouths are open, tasting the air they're both giving off. Pheromones have a role in the dance too.
*Sighs*
Its origins might have been base and rude, but now it's an art. Even the upper classes want to learn it. They go in droves to Argentina for a chance at having a lesson or two. I would jump at the chance to be as alluring and sensual in a dance.
Did someone turn the heat on?
The sexiness of it isn't hard to understand when you look at Tango's history. It's said to have started in the lower class quarters; brothels to be exact. It might have been an excellent advertising tool for "the girls." Something developed to ensure a "score."
Imagine it: he sees that girl over there at the bar. She's got jet black hair being held together in a tight knot at the back of her head with a scarlet colored scarf. He notices the flash of her dark eyes. She's a healthy girl, with a nice voluptuous figure. But the night is young and there are so many women here. Maybe he will take his time, have another drink and consider his options.
Then she slinks over to him, letting her feet hesitate in each step just enough for her walk to be sultry. She's got "that look" in her eyes. Her dress flares and moves tantalizingly, hinting at a young lithe body underneath. Her shoulders have a feline quality about them. Her arms are lazy in her gait. Her attitude is alluring.
Before he knows what is happening, she's taken up residence in his arms and they're locked into rhythm with each other. Her eyes sneak a glimpse at his mouth, then dart back to his eyes. He looks down at her neck, her collar bone, her breasts, then he comes back up to her eyes for some air. Her leg wraps around his, ankle caressing his calf. His hand on the small of her back feels muscle form and move underneath the skin.
See the dip? He did that for a reason. It's a not-so-subtle hint at how and what they will do when there aren't so many people around. A quick slide and a twirl brings her back up and their eyes lock. Mouths are open, tasting the air they're both giving off. Pheromones have a role in the dance too.
*Sighs*
Its origins might have been base and rude, but now it's an art. Even the upper classes want to learn it. They go in droves to Argentina for a chance at having a lesson or two. I would jump at the chance to be as alluring and sensual in a dance.
Did someone turn the heat on?
Friday, June 01, 2007
The Honeymooners
I can't BELIEVE Speaker is going to get away with it! He KNEW he had a TB problem and he still exposed dozens of people to this rare form of TB. Even if we assume he's right - that the medical community didn't think it'd be much of a problem for him to travel in the beginning (key words: in the beginning), eventually he DID know the whole story, and he STILL decided going on his honeymoon was more important.
The CDC even called him while he was in Rome, for crying out loud, and told him to go to an isolation unit there. Of course, he refused. Probably because he wanted one more night of intense intimacy with his new bride before he "turned himself in." That, or he is so coldly ethnocentric that he believes the only "quality" health care is "Amurkin." (Forget the fact that we "Amurkins" can't even decide on how to deal with what should be a basic human right: health care.) Report to an isolation unit in Rome? No way, dude!
Instead, lets put more airline passengers at risk before finally arriving in Canada where he smuggled himself in. Either the border guard who processed him is idiotic, or he was bribed. Hmmm.
Canada to New York. New York to Atlanta. Atlanta to Denver. My home town. Only I don't want him here. Yes, I know we have the National Jewish here and it's THEEE leading hospital when it comes to respiratory care. But why should I care about him when it is so blatantly obvious he wouldn't have cared about me had we been on the same flight?
Speaker is from a rich family. He was born with all the advantages wealth and status can give you. He is used to getting his way. In other words, Speaker is a spoiled little boy who cannot possibly comprehend the consequences of his thoughtless actions.
Or can he? Do you think he's claiming all this guilt, and doing this "I just want forgiveness" act because it suddenly hit him that what he did was wrong? He is a lawyer, after all. If one person one any of those flights comes forward with this extreme and rare form of TB...
Can we say "attempted manslaughter?"
Nah! He's gonna get away with it and THAT ticks me off!
The CDC even called him while he was in Rome, for crying out loud, and told him to go to an isolation unit there. Of course, he refused. Probably because he wanted one more night of intense intimacy with his new bride before he "turned himself in." That, or he is so coldly ethnocentric that he believes the only "quality" health care is "Amurkin." (Forget the fact that we "Amurkins" can't even decide on how to deal with what should be a basic human right: health care.) Report to an isolation unit in Rome? No way, dude!
Instead, lets put more airline passengers at risk before finally arriving in Canada where he smuggled himself in. Either the border guard who processed him is idiotic, or he was bribed. Hmmm.
Canada to New York. New York to Atlanta. Atlanta to Denver. My home town. Only I don't want him here. Yes, I know we have the National Jewish here and it's THEEE leading hospital when it comes to respiratory care. But why should I care about him when it is so blatantly obvious he wouldn't have cared about me had we been on the same flight?
Speaker is from a rich family. He was born with all the advantages wealth and status can give you. He is used to getting his way. In other words, Speaker is a spoiled little boy who cannot possibly comprehend the consequences of his thoughtless actions.
Or can he? Do you think he's claiming all this guilt, and doing this "I just want forgiveness" act because it suddenly hit him that what he did was wrong? He is a lawyer, after all. If one person one any of those flights comes forward with this extreme and rare form of TB...
Can we say "attempted manslaughter?"
Nah! He's gonna get away with it and THAT ticks me off!
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